


i can see you're real smart, world class piece of art

by lgbtbuck



Series: fictober 2018 [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fictober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:44:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lgbtbuck/pseuds/lgbtbuck
Summary: fictober 18 prompt three: "how can i trust you?"





	i can see you're real smart, world class piece of art

**Author's Note:**

> i freaked it

Sharon has probably honestly experienced worst things than running into Natasha Romanoff in this lab outpost in upstate New York, but at present, staring at her trademark red hair, she can’t think of anything that even compares. This, this is her hell. Never mind the fact that they are actually underground right now.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Natasha mutters when she takes Sharon in. She lowers her gun, but still stands taut, arms locked, ready to shoot on notice. “Don’t tell me the CIA is sticking their nose in my op.” She says CIA like it’s a dirty word. Sharon privately thinks she has a point, but on principle, she glowers at Natasha, and straightens her posture.

“Don’t tell _me_ that SHIELD really thinks it can handle an op of this size,” she sneers, and Natasha returns the look. Sharon smirks proudly, and nearly crosses her arms. “Why don’t you just run along back upstairs and let us big kids handle this, before you get yourself hurt.”

“You underestimate me,” Natasha responds, and her grin is unsettling.

Then, one of Sharon’s team speaks in her earpiece: “Carter, there’s nothing on levels three or four.”

“Keep looking,” she practically hisses, two fingers pressed to her comm. “We know he’s in here.”

When she looks back up, Natasha is staring at her, lips pursed.

“What,” Sharon says, flat.

Natasha’s mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again. “He’s not on two or one, either. Which is why I’m down here. My team is collecting the data.”

Oh. Well. “So, he must be down here,” Sharon says, and readies her gun again. For a moment, she worries over the fact that Natasha is down here by herself, without backup, but then Sharon realizes she’s in the same position, and pulls herself out of that. She had requested it, and gets the feeling Natasha probably did as well, taking the lead on the mission. “Okay,” she says, steeling herself. “Okay.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow at her, and the simple gesture really has no business being so brass. “So,” Natasha repeats, slowly. “Looks like we’re together on this one.”

Sharon inwardly curses, and does her best to make it look like she didn’t just suck on a lemon. “I guess so,” she says.

They tell both their teams that the other agency is there, and to act as friendlies, compiling whatever data possible, even if it doesn’t seem relevant. Neither of them can afford to lose this guy; the _world_ can’t afford for them to lose this guy. There’s not really a solid contingency plan for when a crazy white guy decides he’s gonna launch a biochemical weapon in the near future. Especially when no antidote has been mentioned.

The pair of them move through the halls of the underground level, quiet and careful. Eventually, they come across an atrium that serves as a room, two more doors on its opposite wall. A quick survey confirms only the door on the right is locked. Natasha looks to Sharon, and nods once. Sharon gets into position to kick the door down, while Natasha stands behind her, gun raised over her shoulder. Sharon’s left hand raises, and she begins a silent countdown from three with her fingers, but just before one, a crackling noise fills the space.

Then the door opens, releasing a plume of smoke, and Christian Knox, resident scumbag of the month, and their target, darts out of the lab. The lab, that is currently becoming swamped with flames.

Before either of them can shoot, he lobs a Bunsen burner at them — _seriously?_ — as he runs through the atrium, and it catches flames on Sharon’s jacket, and she hears Natasha curse behind her. Sharon ignores the flames in favor of shooting, but the smoke clouds her vision, and stings her eyes. That doesn’t stop her from trying though, and she does her best to navigate to where he went, and just when there’s a break in the smoke, right when she _sees_ his retreating back, he’s suddenly gone, through a door that leads who the fuck knows where.

All she does know, is Natasha yanking on her arm, hissing at her. “Come _on_ , Carter.” She grapples with Sharon’s jacket, left arm still on fire, and manages to yank it off while dragging Sharon backwards.

“Shit!” Sharon yelps when the freshly burned skin of her arm is exposed to the smoke-filled air. And then she seems to get with the program. Right. Lab on fire, who knows what’s in there, what chemicals are in the air. Bunsen burner by their feet still going, right.

Sharon turns to face Natasha now as they move, running as a unit back the way they came. They hear something crack in the lab, and then suddenly they’re thrown forward, through the atrium doorway and back into the hall. They hit the ground hard, coughing up smoke, and Sharon thinks it’s over, before Natasha’s scrambling to get up, dragging Sharon with her around whichever corner she sees, it seems, but no of course not, she knows what she’s doing, and they immediately go down a few steps into what looks like a bunker, and just as Sharon hears the rest of the explosion start, Natasha closes the door, plunging them in into darkness.

—

When they step out of the bunker later, the building is in absolute ruins, as expected, smoke still lingering, a few small fires littered around them. The structure is, well, gone, leaving a big gaping hole above them from the first level. There are cracks all along the that ceiling, chunks already missing, lights flickering dangerously. Natural light seeps in from somewhere, and so that’s where they go.

They make it outside and find absolutely no one. Just a big empty field, as it was an hour ago. Either their teams think they’re dead, or no one else made it out.

Natasha seems to be thinking the same, and tries to speak into her comms. “Does anyone copy? I repeat, does anyone copy?” By the look on her face, Sharon gathers she doesn’t get a response. She yanks the comm out and chucks it into the grass. Sharon takes hers out, too; she knows it’s dead already by the buzzing in her ear, and she tries to believe that her team isn’t still trapped in there, though it’s a hard thing to do.

Natasha meets her gaze, and they both seem to silently agree on what they’re thinking. Sharon nearly suggests looking for them anyways, but then more of the building crumbles and falls behind them, and she looks away. She goes to cross her arms, but immediately pulls back, gasping at the pain. Her entire left arm is bright red, splotched and peeling. She’s an idiot for leaving her jacket on.

She sees Natasha’s feet move a step closer, but then stop, and Sharon looks up at her. She doesn’t mean for it to happen, but her eyes go wide. The right side of Natasha’s hair is uneven, singed at the ends, and a frayed, frizzy mess.

“Yeah, I know,” Natasha says. “Bad hair day.”

And Sharon, God help her, she laughs. Natasha lets a smile grow on her own lips.

“God,” Sharon sighs. Then makes a decision she never thought she would: to trust Natasha Romanoff. Sharon gestures a hand back to the nearest road. “Come on,” she says. “There’s a car stashed nearby. And a safe house not too far from here.”

“A CIA safe house,” Natasha says slowly. Then shrugs a shoulder. “Guess it’ll make do.”

Sharon rolls her eyes, before they fall into step together.

—

At the safe house, it’s quiet. But the silence is deafening, Sharon thinks, as she sits awkwardly on one of beds, while Natasha takes a shower. She already contacted her director, and he confirmed just what she had feared: she and Natasha were the only two to make it out of that explosion. And they don’t know where Knox went. Needless to say, he’s pissed about it, as if it’s Sharon’s fault she almost died. Which, if she thinks about it for too long, staring at the burns on her arms, she’ll convince herself it’s true. But she closes off that train of thought, and focuses on something else much more dire:

The director wants her to collaborate with Natasha Romanoff, and subsequently SHIELD.

Natasha Romanoff, who Sharon’s heard so many stories about, none of them good, and yet none of them she can reconcile with the Natasha she’s seeing now. The Natasha that pulled Sharon to safety before herself, twice; who walked in quiet, tender solidarity with her, and sat in the passenger seat of the ’97 Corolla, feet propped up on the seat, arms curled around her knees, as she and Sharon tried to work through what the fuck to do; the Natasha who jokes as easily as she throws a knife; the Natasha, who right now, is stepping out of the bathroom with nothing but a white towel wrapped around her, twisting her red hair, shorter now, through her fingers and up into a knot.

She rifles through whatever clothes are in the closet for something to wear, and Sharon does her best not to stare. Well, after she realizes she’s doing so, coming out of the trance she was in, watching water drip down Natasha’s shoulders and arms in rivulets. She diverts her attention back to her own arm, where the skin is tender to the touch, which is rather unfortunate since she’s trying to apply burn cream.

Natasha slinks back out of the bathroom a few moments later, damp hair down and combed through, frowning. Sharon nearly laughs again, taking in Natasha’s outfit: a large gray shirt with the CIA logo emblazoned on it, and black sweatpants.

“You need to upgrade your wardrobe selection,” Natasha says, crossing her arms over her chest to cover the offending symbol.

“Not my wardrobe to upgrade,” Sharon says, squeezing more cream onto her finger. “And I, for one, think you look great. It really…” she casts her eyes up at Natasha, and then back down over her frame, and grins, “…suits you.”

“Fuck off,” Natasha says, and then Sharon does laugh. Then gasps, because she wasn’t paying attention to how she was applying the burn cream.

Natasha comes to her side in a flash, sitting on the edge of the bed. Despite this, she seems to hesitate, making Sharon turn to meet her gaze. As much as Sharon wants to drag it out of her, and make her say it, she doesn’t, for some reason. Just hands Natasha the tube of cream and sticks out her arm.

Natasha’s fingers are much gentler than Sharon was expecting, the tips of them cold where they rest on her wrist. It’s a nice change, and actually soothes the pain in her arm. Sharon tries not to think about that, and uses all of her effort to keep her pulse from jumping. Natasha sets to work, and Sharon’s so distracted watching her fingers move that she doesn’t feel anything. It’s not until Natasha stops, and looks up at Sharon, that she realizes.

“Good?” Natasha asks, voice low.

Sharon’s beginning to think she has a problem.

—

The director of SHIELD basically says the same thing as the CIA director, and orders Natasha to work with Sharon. They’ve already set up a collaboration back at home between the two headquarters, and so SHIELD is able to send intel to them through the hookup in the safehouse, though it’s the CIA’s server. Sharon pulls up all the CIA’s files on Knox, and they get to work.

A lot of their files overlap, actually, but where they don’t, they complement. They’ve pieced so much together in under four hours, when it took them weeks to get to the now exploded lab. It baffles Sharon, how simple it seems now.

It’s like this: Christian Knox, born in Portland, Oregon, lived there until his mother died from radiation poisoning after a mishap at the biotech lab where he worked. Subsequently, Knox moved to Australia to live with his grandparents, and grew up seeming to follow his mother’s footsteps, and became the CTO of another biotech firm based in Sydney. It’s grown pretty prolific over the years, as has he, making a name for himself in the biochemical engineering world. Which puts him on intelligence agency’s radar. And for good reason, too, seeing as he’s an evil piece of shit. So far, between the CIA and SHIELD, they’ve established that he’s been back in the US for quite some time, after having developed a new biochemical weapon, his exact location unknown when multiple related research labs and auxiliary outposts in Milwaukee, Cheyenne, Scottsdale, Indianapolis, and Hoboken all happened to explode. They knew it was him, and anticipated the next location, which is where they ran into him, and how they ended up in this safe house in Rochester.

Now, from CIA taps and SHIELD hacks, his records and correspondence show he’s in the stages of planning the attack, date soon but TBD. But probably in New York, because where else would it be.

Sharon’s altering the algorithm to narrow her search field in Knox’s database, keys flying across the keyboard, when Natasha says:

“Hey, Carter.” And Sharon looks over to see her gesturing to her computer, where an navy blue invite fills the screen. Knox is hosting a gala this weekend, in honor of his new achievements. If they want any answers, they’ll be there.

Natasha cocks her head to the side. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” She looks far too pleased about this, Sharon thinks. Sharon, on the other hand, is not looking forward to this. If things go to shit, that is. Fighting in a gown is _so_ cumbersome, and she hates schmoozing with a passion.

She sighs, then grits her teeth, pulling out her phone. “Yeah,” she says defeatedly, and dials her director’s number.

After, Sharon lets herself be convinced into taking what Natasha says is a well-deserved break, sharing the frozen pizza and drinking the beer that was in the kitchen, sitting on the couch and watching the one movie in the entire house: _Speed_.

—

“This thigh holster is so itchy,” Natasha hisses. “Has the CIA ever heard of fabric softener?”

“Stop complaining,” Sharon says lowly, but with a smile. They are at the bar, after all, they’re supposed to be having a good time. Just two average research analysts invited to Knox’s gala.

Sharon watches the less than pleased expression on Natasha’s face fade into the neutral one she’s so familiar with. It drives Sharon crazy, how she can’t figure her out, but she tries not to think about it, staring instead at the way Natasha’s trimmed and straightened hair just barely brushes her shoulders, ends even as they wave with every movement. She’s in a black dress, sleek and subtle and simple, with a low back. Luckily, by now, Sharon’s burns have mostly healed, just itchy, and so she opted for a royal blue halter dress with a high neckline, and thankfully, with slits in the sides, so if need be she can kick some ass. She spent far too long contorting her hair into an updo with only two bobby pins. It’s one of her greatest achievements, though, if she’s being honest.

Sharon rests her clutch on the bar, and instead of surveying the perimeter like any good agent, she watches as Natasha brings a martini glass to her lips, done in red, and doesn’t even leave a smudge after she takes a sip.

“See him yet?” she asks, still looking forward.

Sharon does survey now, and finds nothing. “No.”

Natasha shrugs like she didn’t expect anything less. Then she turns to Sharon with a smile tugging at her lips, green eyes lit with a mirth Sharon is not excited to see. “I think that means it’s time to mingle.”

Sharon groans; she knew it. “My worst nightmare,” she gripes.

Natasha says, “Stop complaining,” teasing, and Sharon fixes her with a look, eyebrow raised in challenge. Then she downs the last of her own martini, and takes Natasha by the arm, and they face the crowd.

—

Sharon did not expect the night to go here, dragging Natasha along as they run into the nearest bathroom. Thankfully, on the third floor, there’s less security, seeing as no one’s supposed to be up here anyways, save for Knox and his cohorts, of course.

One of whom one hundred percent saw them lingering around the corner, listening to their conversation. At least, Sharon reasons, they weren’t spotted before Knox revealed there was a possible antidote, to be held only his hands, administered at his discretion after releasing the weapon over the city of New York, because of course he is.

They get into the bathroom, though not with much of a head start on whichever goon was chasing after them.

Natasha is already reaching for the gun strapped to her thigh. “We’ll stand on either side of the door, and take him by surprise.”

Sharon moves before she even knows what she’s doing, speaks before she even knows what she’s saying. “No, wait. Just. Wait,” and holds her hands out to stop Natasha from pulling her gun out. The look Natasha gives her is one of confusion, eyebrows and nose wrinkling up at her. “If we fight, then Knox will know we’re on his tail, and we’ll blow our chances,” Sharon explains.

Natasha seems to understand that, at least. “So what are you suggesting?”

There are footsteps fast approaching, and Sharon just yanks Natasha into the corner between the nearest stall and the wall, and presses her there. Sharon’s heart is beating way too fast, but there’s no time for calm; she gets hands on Natasha’s waist and kisses her.

Natasha quickly gets with the program, and slips one arm around Sharon’s neck, while the other reaches to grab at her thigh. Natasha’s fingers rest just where the slit in Sharon’s dress is, touching her skin, fingers digging in, and Sharon nearly gasps into her mouth because of it. It seems to be an invitation to Natasha, to tug on Sharon’s bottom lip and slip her tongue in. Not that Sharon has a problem with that.

The door opens then, not as forceful as they expected, so they keep kissing, Natasha’s head tilting to the other side. When the footsteps echo in the empty room, door now closed behind him, Sharon pulls away.

He has a badge, so she uses that. “Oh! Sorry,” she says, voice light. “We know we’re not supposed to be up here, but we just wanted some privacy,” she giggles, and twirls her fingers in Natasha’s hair.

Natasha’s own hand moves up and down Sharon’s side, her smile sweet and innocent, something Sharon never imagined she would see. “I think we had a little too much to drink,” Natasha says in a loud whisper, like it’s a secret, and she hides her laugh in Sharon’s clavicle. She’s too good at this, Sharon thinks, her skin growing warm.

“It’s just so _boring_ down there, you know?” Sharon continues, sounding breathless, and the guard just looks increasingly confused and uncomfortable. It’s too easy. Sharon squeezes Natasha’s arm to get her to continue, and she starts mouthing at Sharon’s jaw and neck, seemingly oblivious to the guard still standing there, trying to decide if he should take his hand off the gun at his hip. Sharon, meanwhile, tries not to shiver.

She focuses on her next move, and laughs, trying to push Natasha away. “Natalie, please,” she says, then to the guard: “She’s such a lightweight. I tried to get her to eat something, but what can you do?” She holds her arms out to the side, and Natasha practically hangs off of her, face pressed into Sharon’s neck.

The guard clears his throat, stammering before he speaks. His hand comes off his gun. “Uh, yeah. The third floor is off limits, uh, ladies. Guests are to remain downstairs in the ballroom.

“Our apologies,” Sharon says, saccharine. Then makes her eyes big, blinking fast. “We’re not in trouble, are we?” Natasha lifts her head now, arms still around Sharon’s neck but gaze only on her face.

“No, ma’am,” the guard replies. “Just return to your table, please.” He gestures towards the door, which he then opens for them.

“Alright,” Sharon replies. “Come on, Natalie.” She taps Natasha’s arms and pries her away, though Natasha still keeps her arm looped through Sharon’s, chin on her shoulder as they walk. Sharon offers a smile to the guard as they pass.

He still follows them to the elevators, so Natasha slurs, “Where we going? Headed back to my place, I hope?” And then she bites lightly at Sharon’s shoulder.

The guard hits the button and the doors open, and he visibly keeps his eyes off of them.

“Sure,” Sharon replies, making her eyes dance, and the doors close behind them.

—

They slink out of the gala easily after that, Natasha leading Sharon by the hand. When they get outside she drops it, though, and Sharon pretends the chilly night air is the reason her hand’s so cold.

“Nice work, Carter,” Natasha says, slinking towards the parking garage where their SUV is parked, courtesy of the CIA.

“Thanks,” Sharon says, following behind her. She gets in the driver’s seat and tries not to think about Natasha’s red lipstick on her face.

—

When they get back to the safe house, they don’t waste time, immediately logging their findings and corroborating with headquarters. In an hour, they learn Knox’s entire plan, far easier than either of them would’ve alone. He plans to destabilize the city hospitals’ mainframes and power grids at the same time he releases the agent, creating mass panic in the midst of his genocide.

They have three days, before he’ll attempt to hit. And since they don’t know his whereabouts, they have to wait. Sharon _hates_ waiting.

But, she supposes, it’s better than not having any answers at all. She’s leaning on the kitchen counter, picking at her nails and chewing her lip over this, when Natasha comes up behind her.

“Hey, Carter?”

“Hmm?” Sharon turns around, and there’s Natasha, coy smile on her face as she turns around.

“Do me a favor and unzip me?” she asks over her shoulder, bunching her hair in her hand.

Sharon stares for far longer than necessary. All she can think about is how Natasha didn’t need help getting the dress zipped up in the first place. But she keeps that to herself, and walks over to her.

“Yeah,” she says, needlessly.

Though she’s not any closer to Natasha than she was in the gala bathroom, it feels different now. Or maybe it’s just Sharon wanting to believe it, though she doesn’t know where that want came from. She’s never been this distracted by anything before, never felt anything less than composed, even around the worst of her enemies. It’s unsettling, but also, Sharon’s finding she doesn’t give a damn, as her knuckles brush against the soft skin at Natasha’s nape.

Time seems to slow and stretch into these delicate, languid moments, as she pulls Natasha’s zipper down, and that’s the only sound in the entire house. Sharon can’t even hear her own breathing; she’s not even sure she is.

When she reaches the end, she leaves some still zipped, and swallows aloud. Natasha drops her hand and her hair falls back into place, one fluid, entrancing movement. She turns back around, and Sharon’s skin feels electric. She looks into Natasha’s pale green eyes, sees her still smudged lipstick, and takes a breath. And Sharon knows, as true as Natasha’s hair is red, what this moment is. And she knows Natasha knows, too.

But, God, does she make her work for it.

When the moment passes for just too long, Natasha’s eyebrow raises, questioning Sharon. She leans back, and Sharon takes the bait, reaching out for Natasha’s waist. Her hands fit around her frame, easy as anything, and Sharon never wants to forget the feeling. She slips one hand up, bringing it to cup around Natasha’s face. The tips of Sharon’s fingers rest in her hair, and she pulls her in.

Sharon was right. This is all different.

The kiss is slow at first, careful as their mouths move against each other, and then with, falling into a steady rhythm. It’s damn near intoxicating, and Sharon finds herself pushing closer as the kiss grows deeper, but not deep enough, God. She grabs Natasha’s head in both her hands and tilts it back, trying to get as close and as much as possible. Natasha’s hands are on her back, first her fingers gripping, then searching for Sharon’s zipper. She pushes against every move Sharon makes, getting her own stride, getting her own rhythm, before she sucks on Sharon’s tongue.

Sharon is not ashamed of the moan that comes out of her mouth, and she pushes more, and more, and more, until suddenly they’re in the bedroom, kissing all the while still. She feels the air of the house hit the bare skin of her back now — Natasha must have got it open without her noticing. It’s just as well, because her own hands move to push the straps of Natasha’s dress down her shoulders, and Sharon’s just found out she’s not wearing a bra.

“Christ,” Sharon mutters, still chasing after Natasha’s mouth.

“Don’t go getting all religious on me now,” Natasha says, a tug to her raw, red lips, and falls back onto the bed, pulling Sharon with her. Sharon leans over her, arms on either side of Natasha’s head. She reaches up to pull out the only two bobby pins in Sharon’s hair — and Sharon will never know how she knew where they were, that’s a question for another time — and runs her fingers through the blonde that now hangs around Sharon’s face, before dragging Sharon in by her collar for another kiss, a hard and quick press of lips. Natasha tips her chin up, breath fanning over Sharon’s ear, and she whispers: “Do your worst.”

And Sharon does.

—

Later, after, they rest against the headboard, Sharon now in the too large CIA shirt and nothing else, whereas Natasha is just wrapped up in the sheet.

They’re close, pressed together, Natasha practically in Sharon’s lap, and Sharon runs gentle, warm fingers over her head. It’s safe to say Sharon never thought she’d end up here.

Natasha turns her head towards Sharon now, an easy smile on her face. “I’m definitely compromised.”

Sharon laughs. “I’ll say.”

She stops her hand, letting it fall to rest over Natasha’s collarbone. Natasha takes her hand, twining their fingers together.

She doesn’t look at Sharon when she says: “I like you, Carter. Way more than any CIA agent deserves.” Sharon pinches her, and sees a smile flit over her lips for a moment. She sobers fast though, her voice considerably lower when she next speaks. “And I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to do this.”

Sharon knows she’s seeing more of Natasha Romanoff than anyone else in the world got to see, and ever will see, for that matter; she’s seeing what Natasha does her best to cover up, to hide behind wit and knives and seduction, and has been for all these years. All these years Sharon spent judging her based on what she heard by word of mouth, rumors of a great shot, a quick killer, a silent weapon, practically flawless. It’s not until now that Sharon realizes, maybe she was envious all along, of hearing of someone so in control of themselves and the field, in control of themselves _in_ the field; some0ne with less years under her belt than Sharon, some grandiose figure in her head, that pushed her to do better, to work harder, to become her best, if not the best. But right now, watching Natasha’s throat work in the dim lighting of this bedroom, Sharon couldn’t care less about any of that. She does what she does and she’s good at it; she shouldn’t need more than that. She _doesn’t._

She turns Natasha’s face towards her, keeping her hand resting under her chin. She tells Natasha what she wished she had heard years ago: “You don’t need to know everything. No one does.” Her voice is gentle, and she keeps her eyes locked on Natasha’s. “You just gotta figure it out on the way.”

Natasha closes her eyes for a moment, and she almost looks fragile, here in Sharon’s hands. “But what if I…” Natasha starts, then stops, looking away for a moment. “I don’t know how to trust people,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes come back to Sharon’s, searching over her. “How can I trust you?”

Sharon runs her thumb over Natasha’s chin in arcs, and leans in to kiss her for a moment. It seems to relax Natasha some, at least. “I don’t know,” Sharon starts. “You just do.” She rests her hand on Natasha’s cheek now. “I’ve got your six.”

Natasha’s smile is small, but a smile nonetheless, and she wraps her hand around Sharon’s wrist. “How do I trust myself?”

“I can’t answer that for you,” Sharon replies. “Because you already know.”

Natasha’s eyes widen a fraction at Sharon’s words, before settling into a sure gaze, accepting and content. They share another kiss, and this time their hands roam, pushing past cotton to find skin, and stay there. The press of Natasha’s hand to her spine is the most comforting thing in the world. It feels safe.

When they break, Natasha settles more against Sharon’s side, and takes her hand between both of her own, dancing her fingers along the back of Sharon’s hand. “Thank you,” she says, soft and sincere.

Sharon smiles, wrapping her other arm tight around Natasha’s waist, resting her chin atop her head. She drops a kiss there. “No problem, Natasha.”

“Call me Nat.”

—

They take Knox down two days later, taking all of his chemical vials and research into custody. Naturally, the win goes to the CIA, as the more established intelligence agency, but Sharon dismisses the praise, saying she couldn’t have done it without Agent Romanoff and SHIELD, and that the credit should be added to their roster. They earned it.

After, Sharon waits for Natasha in a bar in Dupont, running a hand over the fresh, smooth skin of her healed left arm. When Natasha arrives, she boasts about the mission on SHIELD’s behalf, though they both know what Sharon did. Sharon receives her thanks in a sweet kiss against the bar countertop, and even more so when Natasha comes home with her that night, and nearly every night after that. And the days, too.

Whenever she stays at Sharon’s, she wears that too big gray CIA shirt she pilfered from the safe house, and Sharon still hasn’t gotten used to the flutter in her chest whenever she sees Nat wearing it asleep in her bed, or curled up on the couch reading a book, or in the kitchen making breakfast.

It makes Sharon fall more and more in love with her each time, which is just fine, she already knew she was compromised.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i've been wanting to do natsharon forever and this was my first time writing them and as you can see i got carried away it was so fun thank u


End file.
